Selfless or Selfish
by tidbit22
Summary: Steve Randle is feeling unsure about what to do in Vietnam. He's got the job of sending Soda's last letter home in a way most people would call selfless, but he knows he's being selfish


**Sorry, I know this is extremely short. I'm also trying to write happier things, I promise. Grief and Sadness just come easier to me, I guess. I'd also like to thank lulusgardenfli, her review on it's not fair actually inspired this very short story, so thanks for reviewing! Thanks to everyone for reading, it means a lot! - Katie**

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There is no body wrapped in a green tarp. We don't have to tie a white tag onto his boot laces. No one had to put him in his dress uniform. His brothers get to bury an empty casket.

All of it is because I left him. Left him among the bullets and the blood, screaming and explosions. I left him because they said there was nothing else I could do.

I saw the bullet hit his chest and watched him fall. It would have been more merciful for that bullet to have killed him immediately. Instead, he raised his arm, that stupid letter in his hand. Trying to wave down the company's medic. I begged him to drop his arm, muttering to myself with a calm panic. "Put your hand down, idiot." I had whispered urgently. I haven't called him an idiot since he dropped out of school.

Making it over to him was hard, but I managed to do it. He had his hands down now, pressed against his wound. It was so bloody I couldn't actually figure out where the blood was coming from. The letter was lying beside him, a side of it dyed red. He picked it up, leaving bloody fingerprints, and pressed it against my chest. I begged him not to, reminding him of his brothers, of his friends. I begged him not to leave me without the one good thing in my life. He died.

We lost too many people in that ambush, barely anyone was left. We didn't have enough room on the APCs for all of our dead. Thirty-four were left behind, lying on the jungle floor. I couldn't leave him, but they made me.

What was left of our company got R and R, but I refused. I had made a promise to his younger brother, I was going to try my hardest to bring him home. So I went out with D company, going back to the site of our slaughter to recover my best friend's body.

Three of us vomited when we saw what had been done. Marines were missing fingers and ears. I spotted one of my platoon members and joined the vomit club. He was missing the finger with his wedding band. Another guy had his girlfriend's picture stabbed into his chest. Part of me was glad we never found him. Out of the thirty-four bodies we left, only 24 of them were still there and able to make it home.

I packed up his stuff, unable to let anyone else touch it. It's weird to think that the only evidence he was here was his stuff and the bloody letter I had in my pocket. Most of his things would be thrown away or burned, his family had no use for the letters they sent him. Instead, I picked up everyone and tied them with a few rubber bands, sticking them under my bunk.

The pictures he had, are the hardest to sift through. They remind me he had others in his life. Others, who will miss him, probably more than I do. His brothers, smiling up at me in this photo, who I know will be utterly destroyed by the news. His parents, who will be happy to see him, but devastated that he's there. His girl, who he loved more than anything, who doesn't know he's over here and won't know he's dead. There's a picture of a little boy with brown hair and blue eyes, who looks strangely like him. They too get buried with the letters, stuffed under my bunk until I return stateside.

I sit on my bunk, his bloody letter burning a hole through my pocket. It's not meant for me, but for his younger brother. The boy who worshipped him since birth, who loved him more than he loved anyone else. It's not meant for me, yet I read it anyway.

I can't send this back to him. Not covered in his older brother's blood, proof of the hell he endured over here. No, he doesn't need to suffer like that. So, I take care, make sure all my letters are legible. Write out everything he said verbatim, not wanting to twist his last words. I'm careful not to let the teardrops hit the paper.

I want to believe that I'm doing this selflessly. Doing it for the reasons above, because I don't want his little brother to suffer through that. And it's true. But a part of me knows I'm being selfish. Knows I'm doing this because I want to hold onto the last thing my best friend gave me. A part of me knows I can't get rid of the last piece of Sodapop Curtis I have left.


End file.
